


what if (don't even think it)

by zarahjoyce



Series: no rhyme and no reason [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Oops, Post-Series, The King Beyond the Wall, The Queen in The North, or whatevs Jon is doing there atm, speculations, there's no sense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 15:23:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18897367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarahjoyce/pseuds/zarahjoyce
Summary: "I know my responsibilities, Jon. I am expected to lead. But because I'm a woman I amalsoexpected to produce heirs. As I refuse to be subjected to another arranged marriage,thisis the only way. Believe me."She inhales slowly. "I'm trying to do good for both the North and myself, and as Queen I can. Therefore, Iwill."





	what if (don't even think it)

It's a rare sight nowadays, having a Stark in Winterfell other than herself.  
  
And isn't  _that_ a grievous thought.  
  
Sansa grimaces, straightening in her seat as she watches her half-brother - no, cousin - pace  _wildly_ before her. She wants to comment on how he looked more like a wildling than a Stark, but she supposes that must have been an effect of having lived with them for  _years_ now - so she chooses not to say anything.  
  
Perhaps she ought to give him new furs as a farewell present for when he ends this unexpected visit.  
  
Jon stops only to come directly towards her. "Tell me this is a joke," he demands, his voice gruff.  
  
Then again, perhaps not.  
  
She curbs the desire to roll her eyes. "No," she replies simply.  
  
"No?"  
  
"Far be it for me to decree something as a  _joke_ , Jon," she says, unable to keep herself from sounding condescending. "My position dictates that everything I say can be interpreted as law, should I wish it.  _You_ should know something about that."  
  
He curls his lip at her. "You are Queen, Sansa. The Queen in the North. Surely this thing-- surely you see yourself above this thing."  
  
"This...  _thing?_ " she repeats, brows raised. "You mean my desire to have an heir?"   
  
" _Outside_ of marriage!" he howls, clearly outraged at the thought - for some reason.  
  
Sansa scoffs at his reaction. "I have no need for a husband, but I  _do_ need a man to have a child. Fortunately I've devised a way in which I will gain what I wish without having to endure another  _unwanted_ marriage."  
  
"And  _that_ is why you are calling all eligible Lords to come visit you?" Jon asks her, his voice strangely hoarse.   
  
She stands from her seat to walk towards the window. "Yes," Sansa replies, glancing at him. "I need to weigh my options, after all."  
  
She can almost see it, in her mind's eye: a boy or girl running around Winterfell, making it all but impossible for Sansa to work without at least giving the child her undivided attention. And she wants... oh, how she _wants!_ She dearly wishes her babe will inherit her red hair, but she supposes she can also bear children with dark hair like Bran's, like Arya's.  
  
Sansa glances at her guest again and adds, silently: like  _Jon's_.  
  
"Options," he repeats, scowling.  
  
She waves her hand and says, "I need someone with a good head on his shoulders. Someone trustworthy. Someone--"   
  
_Brave, gentle, strong._  
  
She shakes her head at the unwanted thought. "Someone with good blood, I suppose. I need my child healthy and strong." Wryly she adds, "Hopefully he or she will get to inherit my wits as well, as I don't expect them to come from someplace else."  
  
_"Sansa,"_ Jon says, pinching the skin between his eyes and all but ignoring her good humor, "you-- you do understand what this means, don't you?"  
  
"If I answer you  _no_ , will you educate me?" she asks, slightly amused.  
  
Spots of color bloom on his face before he shakes his head sharply and says, "You're  _propositioning_ men! Do you not see what's wrong with that?"  
  
"For the good of the North!" she responds, raising her chin. Really, he can't make her feel ashamed about her decision on the matter; he  _won't._ "I know my responsibilities, Jon. I am expected to lead. But because I'm a woman I am  _also_ expected to produce heirs. As I refuse to be subjected to another arranged marriage,  _this_ is the only way. Believe me." She inhales slowly. "I'm trying to do good for both the North and myself, and as Queen I can. Therefore, I  _will_."  
  
Jon takes deep breaths and just  _looks_ at her, making her feel like she's saying something idiotic - which annoys her to no end. "I don't even know how you came to know about it. I haven't sent any messages  _your_ way," she seethes.  
  
"Just because I don't live with you does not mean I don't have ways of knowing things about you," he says quietly. "It doesn't mean I've stopped protecting you."   
  
"If you really want to protect me then come live here  _with_ me," Sansa replies, point blank.   
  
Jon winces.  
  
"I've already pardoned you years ago," she says, crossing her hands behind her back. "I don't know why you won't abide by it."  
  
"You-- you know why."  
  
She curls her lip. Sansa supposes she should at least be understanding, but that part of him - that particular part of his past - will always,  _always_ irk her. "Gods, you're dumb."  
  
Unexpectedly, he merely chuckles in response. "Is that why you haven't sent invitations  _my_ way?"  
  
"I suppose I can," she says lightly, "if you want me to. Should I proposition  _you_ , Jon?"   
  
She means it as a joke, of course. Something they'll both laugh about. Surely Jon will call her bluff any moment now.  
  
But something in his expression shifts; she can't explain it, but somehow the way he's looking at her now is...  _different_. Like he's studying her. Like he's stripping away her layers to look at her very core.  
  
He's made her feel like this before. So many years ago that she feels as though she's already forgotten how deeply it can get under her skin. How it can make her feel so soft, vulnerable, _womanly_.  
  
_Almost_.  
  
Her throat feels parched; she wets her lip and turns away from him.  
  
"Sansa," he says, his voice low. "Have you already--?"  
  
"What?" she asks, even as she seeks to put some semblance of distance between them.  
  
Jon discards her efforts by stepping closer to her. "How many men have you already asked to come here?"  
  
Sansa glances at him; it's in her thoughts to lie to him, to tell him she's already received tens of them - but one look in his eyes makes her reconsider. "Three, but they've yet to come."  
  
" _Yet?_ "   
  
She sniffs. "There were... conflicts in our schedules. I can--"

"Revoke your invitation," he says firmly.   
  
She frowns at him. "Why should I?"  
  
He grimaces, as if internally debating on what to do next, before he reaches for her hand. "If you need--  _assistance_ ," Jon starts to say, and there is something oddly hypnotic about the way he stumbles around his own words, "I can do it. I can... assist you." Pause. "If you'll have me. If you--  if you  _want_."  
  
_Gods._  
  
Sansa blinks at him, not knowing what to say - at first. " _Jon_. You-- you do understand what this means, don't you?"  
  
Jon's lip twitches and wryly he responds, "If I answer you  _no_ , will you educate me?"  
  
She opens her mouth - but no words come out.

"For the good of the North," he reminds her, squeezing her hand and looking at her _that way_  again.  
  
_For the good of the North,_ her mind echoes, unable to do much else.


End file.
